Jake introduced me.
Blotnik looked surprised, recovered, and leaned forward to shake hands.
“Shabbat shalom.”Jittery smile. Santa voice. “Please, sit.”
The choices were limited since all but two chairs were stacked with papers and books. Jake and I took them.
Blotnik sat behind his desk. For the first time he seemed to notice my face.
“You’ve been injured?” American English. Maybe New York.
“It’s nothing,” I said.
Blotnik opened his mouth, closed it, unsure what to say. Then, “But you’ve survived your jet lag?”
“Yes,” I said. “Thank you.”
Blotnik bobbed his head and spread both hands on the desktop. All his movements were sharp and hummingbird quick.
“This is extraordinarily kind, bringing the skeleton to me. Truly above and beyond.” Full-blown elf smile. “You have it with you?”
“Not exactly,” Jake said.
Blotnik looked at him.
Jake described the incident with the Hevrat Kadisha, omitting all detail concerning the tomb.
Blotnik’s face sagged. “Such absurdity.”
“Yes.” Glacial. “You know the Hevrat Kadisha.”
“Not really.”
Jake’s brows dipped, but he said nothing.
“Where is this tomb?” Blotnik steepled his fingers. Two perfect palm prints remained on the blotter.
“In the Kidron.”
“This is the source of the textiles Esther mentioned?”
“Yes.”
Blotnik asked several more questions about the tomb. Jake replied in vague, icy terms.
Blotnik stood.
“I’m sorry, but you caught me on my way out.” Blotnik gave what I’m sure he considered a sheepish grin. “Shabbat. Slipping off early.”
“Shabbat shalom,”I said.
“Shabbat shalom,”Blotnik said. “And thank you so much for trying, Dr. Brennan. The IAA is deeply indebted. Such a long trip. Such a loss. Your gesture is truly remarkable.”
We were in the hall.
Driving to Hebrew University, Jake and I discussed our encounter with Blotnik.
“You really don’t like the guy,” I said.
“He’s a self-promoting, egotistical fraud.”
“Don’t hold back, Jake.”
“And I don’t trust him.”
“Why?”
“He’s professionally dishonest.”
“How?”
“Uses the work of others, publishes, doesn’t give proper credit. Want me to go on?”
Jake abhorred senior scientists who exploited junior colleagues or students. I’d heard the rant. I let it go.
“Getz told Blotnik about the shroud.”
“I figured she would, but it’s a risk I’m willing to take. Esther’s the best there is with ancient textiles, and I need her authentication of the thing. Besides, by going through Getz, it makes it impossible for Blotnik to piggyback onto the find.”
“But you don’t trust either of them with the bones.”
“No way anyone sees those bones until I’ve got them fully documented.”
“Blotnik didn’t seem all that upset about the Masada skeleton,” I said. “And he didn’t seem as surprised to see me as I’d expected.”
Jake glanced at me.
“When I called from Montreal, I never mentioned the date I was coming.”
“No?”
Jake made a left.
“And what about the jet lag comment?” I asked.
“What about it?”
“It’s as though Blotnik knows exactly how long I’ve been here.”
Jake started to speak. I cut him off.
“And wouldn’t anyone in archaeology in Israel know about the Hevrat Kadisha?”
“Duh!” Jake snorted. “You caught that, too?”
“Could it be that Blotnik seemed unconcerned becausehe has the skeleton?”
“Long shot. The guy’s a wimp.” Jake cut me a look. “But if he does, I’ll kick his ass from here to Tel Aviv.”
We also discussed Getz’s comments.
“Not exactly garrulous, is she?”
“Esther’s direct.”
Not the descriptor I’d pinned on the Getzster.
“But you liked what she saw,” I said.
“Damn right. Clean hair. No vermin. Imported fabric. And wool was a luxury back then. Most shrouds were exclusively linen. Whoever this boy was, he had social standing.” Jake shot me another look. “And a hole in his heel bone. And relatives with names straight out of the Gospels.”
“Jake, I’ve got to admit, I’m skeptical. First the Masada skeleton, now these shroud bones. Are you talking yourself into something because you desperately want it to be true?”
“I’ve never believed the Masada skeleton is that of Jesus. That was Lerner’s interpretation, based on the cocked-up thinking of Donovan Joyce. But I do think the bones are those of someone who shouldn’t have been up on that rock. Someone whose presence is going to make the Israelis, and maybe the Vatican, pee their shorts.”
“A nonzealot.”
Jake nodded.
“Who?”
“That’s what we’re going to find out.”
We rode in silence for a while. Then I went back to the shroud.
“Is the shroud I found in the tomb similar to the shroud of Turin?” I asked.
“The Turin cloth is linen, and has a more complicated, three-on-one twill weave. Which makes sense. That shroud dates to the medieval, somewhere between 1260 and 1390C. E. ”
“Carbon-fourteen dated?”
Jake nodded. “Confirmed by labs in Tucson, Oxford, and Zurich. And the Turin shroud was a single garment for the whole body. Ours is a two-part deal.”
“What’s current thinking on the Turin image?” I asked.
“Probably resulted from oxidation and dehydration of the cellulose fibers of the cloth itself.”
Another wham-o for the Vatican.
Getting to the university took less time than finding a spot to park. Jake finally wedged his rented Honda into footage meant for a scooter, and we set off toward the eastern end of campus.
The sun beamed down from an immaculate blue sky. The air smelled of freshly cut grass.
We walked through patches of shadow and light, past classrooms, offices, dorms, and labs. Students drank coffee at outdoor tables, or strolled wearing bandannas, backpacks, and Birkenstocks. A kid tossed a Frisbee to his dog.
We could have been on any campus in any city in the world. High atop its Mount Scopus hilltop, Hebrew University was an island of tranquillity in an urban sea of sentries, barricades, smog, and cement.
